Marie nodded her assent, and entered the little grove in an agony of suspense, while Jean François hurried on.
The horse was now near enough to the top of the hill for his tread to be distinctly heard, though he was moving so slowly, and in another instant horse and rider both became distinctly visible in the bright moonlight. The rider was Raoul de Pont Brillant, who had been obliged to take this route after leaving the Vieille Coupe road.
Frederick, who was familiar with every path and road in the forest, had, by making a short cut through the woods, reached the top of the hill considerably in advance of the young marquis.
Marie soon reached quite a large clearing that extended to the roadside. Near the edge of this clearing stood an immense oak, and the thick moss that covered the ground beneath it deadened the sound of any footsteps so effectually that the young woman was able to approach without attracting the attention of her son, whom she saw half hidden by the enormous trunk of the tree. Too deeply absorbed to notice his mother's approach, Frederick was kneeling bareheaded on the grass, holding his gun half lowered as if confident that the moment to raise it to his shoulder and fire was close at hand.
Though she had endeavoured to drive away the terrible thought, there had been a strong fear of the possibility of suicide, so it is easy to imagine Madame Bastien's intense joy and relief when, from her son's posture, she concluded that the farmer's suspicions were justified and that her son was merely poaching on his neighbour's preserves; so, in a wild transport of tenderness and delight, the young mother sprang forward and threw her arms around her son at the very instant he brought his gun to his shoulder, muttering the while, in a ferocious tone:
"Ah, M. le marquis, I have you now."
For Frederick had just seen Raoul de Pont Brillant slowly advancing toward him through the clear moonlight, lazily whistling a hunting song.
Madame Bastien's movement had been so sudden and so impetuous that her son's gun fell from his hands at the instant he was about to fire.
"My mother!" murmured Frederick, petrified with astonishment.
The horse's tread and the hunting song Raoul de Pont Brillant was whistling had partially deadened the noise Madame Bastien had made. Nevertheless, the young marquis seemed to have heard or seen something that had excited his suspicions, for, standing up in his stirrups, he called out, imperiously, "Who goes there!" then listened attentively again.